Answering Service
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Ask Jeeves tag: They carry on not only legacies, but also phone contracts.


**Answering Service**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

Dean turned the phone over and over in his hands, more mindlessness than any real intention. It was what was in it—or, Sam would probably say, what was in the clouds or outer space or whatever—that had him thinking, not the plain exterior. Even if familiar, often-missed hands had once gripped that surface.

There'd been twenty-seven messages on the phone. Spam calls about timeshares and politicians. Requests for help or shared info that had long expired. One call looking for "Special Agent Singer." And six from the only two kids Bobby had ever had, five of them old, saved over the years.

Sam wandered into the kitchen, glancing at Dean as he headed for the coffeepot but only raising an eyebrow after he collected a steaming mug. He retrieved from the fridge the bottle of frou-frou flavored creamer that Dean stocked for him, then settled at the table across from his brother.

"What's that?" Sam tipped his chin toward the phone as he ruined his perfectly good cup of coffee.

Dean skipped the obvious sarcastic answer, not in the mood. "Bobby's phone."

Sam's hands barely hesitated. "Huh. Anything else interesting in the messages?" Besides the one that had sent them days before to the LaCroix estate, and the shapeshifter Bobby had apparently inherited.

Dean breathed out and shook his head. "Naw. I think some of the older messages got dropped, but there's nothing else we need to worry about."

Sam's shoulders came down a little and he nodded, sipping his coffee. Eyeing Dean speculatively, so Dean wasn't that surprised when his brother asked, "So…?"

So why was he sitting there like a teenage girl waiting for her crush to call? Dean straightened a little, once more flipping the phone around in his hand. "I was just thinkin'. Should we keep paying for Dad and Bobby's phones? I mean, Dad's been gone, what, almost a decade now? What're the chances someone's gonna call with something important now? Anyone who'd know who he was would know he's dead."

Sam nodded, looking thoughtful. "It's not like we hung on to Garth's, or Ellen's, or Kevin's." He could say the prophet's name without wincing now, Dean was grateful to see. And of course, Garth wasn't really dead, but the Garth Fitzgerald the 4th Hotline had retired with him. Hunters were mostly on their own now unless they worked something out with another hunter.

"Unless it's a civilian who knew him way back when and hasn't needed anything before," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, and how many calls like that have we gotten in the last five years?" Sam asked.

He wasn't wrong. Dean turned the phone over again, remembering how he'd sometimes dug out John's cell during that dark year when Sam was in the Cage, or Bobby's when Sam was spiraling into insanity, listening to the outgoing message or just holding that final link to the men he'd looked up to who were now gone.

"We're carrying enough right now, man." Sam spoke quietly. "Let it go. I'll wipe 'em, and we'll find one of those domestic violence charities to donate them to."

The decision felt like both a relief and a loss. Looking up at Sam, though, Dean saw the same feelings in his brother's eyes, and that somehow helped. "Yeah." He set the phone down on the table between them. "Yeah, you're right."

Sam's mouth twisted. "I can save the outgoing messages first."

Again with the knowing-how-he-felt thing. Dean's eyes just skated past his brother as he nodded, voiceless.

Sam reached for the phone. But Dean beat him to it, curling fingers around the shell.

"In a few minutes, okay? I'll go get the others, too."

Sam nodded understandingly and stood, mug in hand. "I'm gonna do some work in the library." _Come join me if you need the company,_ was the unspoken corollary.

Dean didn't answer, didn't have to.

He waited until Sam left the room. Then he turned the phone back on, to the voicemail menu that was already open. After a few seconds, he hit play for one last time on the message that was queued up, the only personal one recorded after Bobby's death.

" _Hey, Bobby."_ Sam's voice sounded rough. _"I wish you were still out there to talk to. I just…Dean did something…I don't know if I can forgive him this time, you know? And,"_ an unsteady laugh, _"I know you'd say something like, 'Just get over it, you idjit.' But…every time I look at him, I just see…"_ A deep sigh. _"I wish I could ask you for some advice, man. Dean, what he did was just, it was a betrayal, you know? And that doesn't just go away because he's sorry and we've got history together—I just wanna punch him in the face every time I see him. But, here's the thing—he's still m'brother. And I-I keep tryin' to tell him we're done, I'm done, but I still…I still love him, even when I don't want to. So…yeah."_ Another sad laugh. _"Pathetic, huh? Yeah…"_ A long pause. _"I miss you, Bobby."_ A throat clearing, and then the message ended.

Dean lowered the phone, looking at it a minute. Then stood and headed out of the kitchen. John's collection of phones was in one of the drawers in his room, and Sam was waiting.

But first, there was a message he wanted to save, too.

 **The End**


End file.
